Jealous Guy
by Russianality
Summary: When France finds out England went behind his back, he isn't too happy about it.  Rated M to be safe!


"You told me you'd be with me forever." France's voice was essentially a growl as he leaned over England, the former's eyes narrow with fury. "You liar."

This all began a few hours ago, when France happened to walk in on England making a telephone call. Normally, he'd have assumed he was talking to America or one of his other former-colonies; but he'd gotten suspicious this time when the Brit tensed upon his presence and whispered something, then immediately hung up the phone.

Naturally, something was up.

He let it go, though, forcing himself to stay positive. Perhaps he was planning some sort of surprise?

They'd gone through dinner normally, normal talking with normal arguements, and it was when England asked France to leave the room while he was doing dishes when the older nation decided to do something about it. He'd grasped England by the forearm and dragged him upstairs, throwing him on their bed and pinning him there.

"You liar," the Frenchman hissed, gaze colder than it had ever been. "How long has this been going on? Weeks? Months? Years?"

England did his utmost to yank his wrists free from the single hand that held them above his head. "How long has WHAT being going on?" the anglophone snarled right back. "Nothing's going on!"

Of course he was on the defensive. Denying it only confirmed France's suspicions.

"Your... relationship." France gripped England's chin in his free hand and forced his gaze upward, holding him there. "With her."

"What? With whom?" England paled and turned pink at the same time- strike two.

"You know who I'm talking about." France kept his voice calm and quiet, but threatening- he knew how it intimidated England. It had worked before.

"What the HELL are you talking about, idiot?"

"Don't lie to me," France hissed, their faces centimeters apart. "You were speaking with her on the phone earlier today." He let go of England's face and reached across to the bedtable- he clutched the phone in his hand. "Shall I select redial?"

"No-!" Strike three.

There was no amusement in the laugh that followed- only anger and coldness. France tossed the phone onto the floor and smashed his lips to England's, all fury this time. He bit and bit and bit, finally satisfied when he heard a squeak of pain from the younger's throat. He pulled away to eye bleeding lips and confused, hurt green eyes.

France looked down at him coldly. "Don't move." His voice held an unspoken threat- one that he was perfectly willing to carry out right now. He released England's wrists and got off of him, eyeing him as a warning. Sure enough, the Briton didn't move- probably too afraid to.

France got back on the bed, a pair of handcuffs looped around a finger. England eyed these warily but otherwise did not respond- it wouldn't be the first time he'd worn them in bed with the Frenchman.

Quirking an eyebrow at this nonchalantness, France snapped one end of the cuffs around England's left wrist, looped it to a bar installed to the headboard for such a purpose, and snapped the final one around his right.

What England didn't notice, and subsequently didn't except, was the loud snapping noise that came from the whip clutched in France's right hand.

Yes, a whip.

England suddenly regretted leaving the key to the toybox in France's possession.

Green eyes widened and focused on the whip, watching it oh-so-intently.

France would have to thank America for lending this to him later.

He snapped it again, watching with grim satisfaction how England recoiled, his body attempting to shy away from the leather snake, denied this comfort by France's body.

No. England would suffer a punishment for betraying him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bandana. England barely had time to wonder how he'd gotten all of this stuff from the box without noticing before everything went black and his face suddenly felt warmer.

Of course- France had blindfolded him.

"He-"

"Hush." France snapped the whip again. "Or I'll shut that traitorious mouth of yours too. In fact..." Weight shifted and three long fingers found their way into the Briton's mouth, playing with his tongue.

"Listen very carefully, Angleterre." The Frenchman's voice was dangerous, very dangerous. Lethal. Like poison. "This mouth..." He ignored any complaints, leaning low to murmur into England's ear. "...is mine. It may not touch anyone else, it may not speak of anyone else, it may not speak ito/i anyone else the words "I love you". Do you understand?"

A nod was all the tense Brit could manage. His mouth was currrently occupied and he couldn't do anything with his hands.

"Secondly..." France withdrew his hand and traced a finger over the younger's blindfolded eyes. "These eyes are mine. They may not look at anyone else but me. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

France lingered for a moment, letting his breath fall on England's neck as he chose his next target. He picked his head up and trailed a hand down the anglophone's chest- when did his shirt become undone?-, stopping when long fingers covered his heart.

"This heart," France murmured, moving to England's ear once more, "is again mine. It shall not long for anyone else, it shall not belong to anyone else but me. Do I make myself clear?"

Another nod. It was all England could do to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to come out in tears.

"Finally..." France trailed his hands down the rest of the Englishman's body, touching all of his sensitive places and pinching and squeezing and scraping with his nails. "This body is mine. It shall not be seen by anyone else, it shall not be touched by anyone else. Is that clear?"

Nod, and an attempt at speaking that was quickly silenced.

France bit down on England's lower lip, slipping his tongue inside the mouth before him without patience. He wasn't playing any games tonight- this was real. He came very close to suffocating the Briton before he pulled away, licking his lips as he watched England pant. Oh, he'd be doing much worse before the night was through. France could promise him that.

He cracked the whip again- Poor England had forgotten it was there and jumped at the sound.

"Pay very close attention, Angleterre." France bit down and sucked on his neck, making marks as he moved around the skin that belonged to him. It was good that there was no knife present- France was tempted to carve his name into England's body.

When he was finished, the Frenchman sat back and scrutinized the red dots on England's neck. IFrance./i They spelled out iFrance./i

Now, whenever England looked at himself for the rest of the week, he'd remember who he belonged to. And everyone else would know too.

France attacked England's chest next, biting and sucking and scratching his name into every bit of skin he could reach. IFrance/i on his neck. IFrance/i on his stomach. iFrance/i on his heart.

He slipped off the Briton's pants with ease, despite hands shaking with anger. He was livid. ILivid./i

France was never livid. He let others do the fighting, preferring to love instead. Why be angry when you can just love? All you need is love.

He was only livid when England refused to admit that he was owned. Owned by France, and never to be released until the day they both died. For even in death, France would find a way to keep England for his own.

France planted kisses and nips on this half of England, his hips and thighs and legs. It was all his.

He ignored the British nation's squirming and moved back up, taking one of his hands and bringing it to his lips.

"I love you." A kiss. "Je t'aime." Another. "I love you." Kiss. "Je t'aime." A fourth.

France leaned over him again and brought the palm he was holding to his own bare chest, placing it above his heart. The heart that beat not for France, but for England.

"Do you feel this?" France's voice was quiet this time, gentler. "It's yours. It belongs to you, just as yours belongs to me." He couldn't hold back a sigh. "Angleterre... England..."

He sat back, closing his eyes for a moment. France looked up to the British man's face- the eyes he couldn't see, the brows furrowed in confusion, worry, and regret. The lips darkened with clotted blood, the cheeks wet with tears.

He brought it on himself.

But had didn't mean France couldn't make it better.

He bent forward, touching a red cheek gently. England shied away from his touch, pulling his head away with a noise of protest. France gave a sad smile as he reached over and undid the knot, pulling the cloth away from his face and dropping it to the floor.

"Oh, my love..." France's face was gentle as he stroked England's cheek, looking down at him with equally sad, blue eyes. "What did I do to you...?" He placed a gentle kiss to the Briton's forehead. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, mon cher amour... I... lost control..."

England didn't respond, only shifting uncomfortably and flexing his fingers.

"You hurt me, so I hurt you back... I didn't... intend to..." France traced a finger over swollen lips. His lips. They were his, and he'd hurt them.

"Say something to me, England..." France took a key from his pocket and let England's wrists free. He grasped one gently and kissed it all over, then gave the other the same treatment. "Oh, England, please..." He lay down on his side next to the other and ran a hand through messy blond hair. "Tell me you forgive me... Forgive me for making you cry..."

He shut his eyes, unwilling to look at the Englishman he loved so much. The Englishman he'd hurt so much.

"Forgive me for-"

"It's alright."

France opened his eyes carefully. He was actually afraid- tension gnawed at his stomach as he waited for an answer.

"I... forgive you." England sat up, nursing wrists that were bound to be bruised in a few hours and looking over his shoulder at the man beside him.

France sat up with him and focused blue eyes on green ones. Could he really...?

"Stop looking like a deer in headlights, you idiot." England looked down, suddenly tensing again.

Had France done something wrong?

"I'm sorry for what I did too. I shouldn't have gone behind your back like that." He looked guiltily at the silver band on his left hand. "I-"

"Let me help you." The French nation got off the bed and offered England his hand. "I made this mess, it's only fair that I clean it up."

England's scowl was back. "There's nothing to clean up- just a little blood, sweat, and tears. Never killed anyone."

"Yes, but it's going to hurt." France tapped a fist to his chest. "Here." His fingers twitched. "Now come here and let me get you comfortable."

For once, England gave a small, oh-why-the-hell-not smile and took his hand, and allowed himself to be pulled into the French chest and be surrounded by French arms.

;; 


End file.
